


Hastings Monday

by clearinghouse



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hastings Monday, Hurt/Comfort, Psychology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: Captain Hastings is unusually upset while at the private dinner that Poirot has prepared for him—and Hastings is not very adept at hiding when he’s in a poor mood. Fortunately, Chief Inspector Japp and Miss Lemon are there to help Poirot and his little grey cells discover the cause of Hastings’ sadness.





	

The first point of observation which presented itself to the mind of Hercule Poirot was that each of his three dear friends was in an excellent mood when first the gathered for the dinner he had made for them in his well-maintained flat. This detail was quite agreeable and innocuous on its own.

The second and less agreeable point of observation was the development of a taciturn behaviour in Captain Hastings, which was unusual for that character of his which was so typically outspoken.

As Poirot was an attentive host of the dinner parties and endeavoured to engage himself most fully with all three of his guests, he did not have occasion to remark upon these observations until, in the middle of the dinner, there was a lull in the conversation.

“My friend Hastings,” said Poirot. “The food, it is not to your liking?”

With the startled face of the deer in the headlights, Hastings raised his gaze from the meal which had barely been consumed. He effected the surprise that Poirot should ask him such an outlandish question. “The food’s fantastic, as always!”

“Then, the heat in the room, it is too high for you today?”

This, question, too, received the most incredulous of faces. “Not at all. Though, I daresay you’ve always liked it warm, Poirot.” Here, he had attempted in vain to distract Poirot with the most plain-faced humour.

“Then,” Poirot asked while spreading his hands, “my dear Hastings, whatever is the matter?”

In the manner of a flinch, Hastings assumed a straight posture in his chair. “Nothing! Why should something be the matter?”

“You have been awfully quiet tonight, haven’t you, Hastings?” noted Chief Inspector Japp. “Not that that’s bad, but it’s a bit odd. You’re normally the life of the party, always ready to tell me about the next greatest car or some such thing.”

Hastings, ever the modest Englishman, dismissed the compliment in a manner most apologetic. “I wouldn’t say I’m all that.”

“Oh, come now,” chided Miss Lemon. “I do believe you were the one looking forward to this dinner the most. If something’s not right with it, you’ve got to tell us.”

But Poirot believed Hastings was telling the truth. It was plain to Poirot that his close friend did not himself know what was bothering him. “Perhaps, Miss Lemon, it is the trouble subconscious.”

The mention of the subconscious excited Miss Lemon. She leaned forward and spoke to those present at the table in whispers. “Something he’s not even aware of?”

Chief Inspector Japp shook his head and clicked his tongue before Hastings could make a response. “Captain Hastings must know what’s bothering him, if it’s true that something’s bothering him. He’s just too nice a chap to say it. Afraid he’ll offend someone, I’ll wager. But we’re all a little hardier than that. Captain Hastings, are you feeling all right, or is Poirot right, as usual?”

Having become the dinner’s centre of attention, Captain Hastings blushed like a little child. “This isn’t necessary, you all should know. I’m really having a splendid time here. I’m quite delighted to spend this evening with you all. This kind of thing doesn’t happen often, after all, does it? Our last time was weeks ago.” Hastings tried to don the false face of a better mood. “So, let’s all appreciate it, and have a good time.”

“We can only be as merry as the saddest of us.” This bit of folk wisdom was offered by Miss Lemon, whose voice had returned to its regular cadence. “Oh, look at that. You’ve barely eaten a thing. Whatever it is that’s on your mind, remember,” she added with a severe shake of her fork, “don’t let it get to you like this. It’s not worth it. Wouldn’t you rather share whatever it is with us? I find that always helps me get my worries off my chest!”

“I hate to say this, but I couldn’t agree with Miss Lemon more,” said Chief Inspector Japp. “When I have a problem like that, my wife always seems to know, and she never lets me alone until I tell her what’s bothering me, and when I do, I always feel better for it. Then, poof! My problems always turn out to be no problem at all. Maybe you could try giving it a shot yourself.”

Poor Captain Hastings hesitated to respond to that, for several moments too long.

“No problem at all… Ah!” Poirot exclaimed abruptly. “ _Eh bien_ , all is now clear to me!”

The other three people around the table turned their attention upon the little detective.

Poirot was as energized as if he had solved a prodigious crime, the puzzle of which had plagued him relentlessly. “Poirot, he has been blind! Foolish and blind, to not have seen what was right in front of him!”

“Really, Poirot.” It was with the air of the indignant that Hastings reacted. “I’m not some murder mystery to be solved.”

“ _Au contraire, mon ami_. Your troubles are as fine and deserving a study in the human psychology as any, as you say, murder mystery. All is now known to Poirot. I shall tell to you the reason for your despair.” He paused dramatically, so that the import of his deduction might be best appreciated by his audience. “You see: it is this dinner itself which troubles you.”

“What?” Hastings was not enthralled by Poirot’s grand declaration. “But, I just told you. I relish the chance to spend a night with my friends like this!”

“Yes, indeed. As you said before, these chances come rarely, _n’est-ce pas_?” Poirot politely wiped around his mouth with his handkerchief in the way most befitting a gentleman. “Perhaps, in the mind of one overly-modest Captain Arthur Hastings, these chances, they do not come often enough? Perhaps, this scarcity of the dinners with those closest to him—this may secretly bother such a man who so loves the company of his friends?”

Again, there was the pinkish blushing on the cheeks of Captain Hastings.

“ _Mais oui, y_ our dilemma is not the dilemma at all,” Poirot murmured with a sly moustached smile and squinting of the eyes.

Miss Lemon was the next to speak, though she spoke few words. “Oh, Captain Hastings.”

Chief Inspector Japp made a loud sigh, to express his agreement with her. Both of their attitudes had taken on sombre tones of the most serious nature. “You must’ve hit the thing on the head, Poirot. We don’t see each other often, do we? Not when there isn’t a murder to bring us together, that is.”

“Yes, we certainly don’t!” There was a sudden surge of energy through Miss Lemon. “Captain Hastings is right to be upset about it. It would be nice if we could all talk and look at each other’s smiling faces every so often, in between the awful murders.”

“I say! This really isn’t necessary.” Captain Hastings protested with half-hearted vehemence against their sympathy. “If it’s all for my sake… Well, it’s not like we all don’t have other things we need to be doing with our time.”

“Not really,” replied Chief Inspector Japp. “I think my Emily could stand to spare me at home a little more often.”

Poirot interjected. “Ah, but it is a trait common to the English. They do not know how to ask for a thing that they so sorely want and which their loved ones are so very glad to give. Captain Hastings requires the regular meeting of us, and I see no reason not to oblige a need which is so very reasonable. A biweekly, no… A weekly rendezvous, this should suffice? Would that not be to your liking?”

Captain Hastings was amazed by Poirot’s bold words. “No, no, I can’t have us meeting once a week for no reason…” His brow furrowed, and his uncertain eyes appealed to Poirot. “Can I?”

Poirot wagged his finger unabashedly. “Do not say that it is for no reason, _mon ami_.”

“And of course we can. It will be our own special holiday!” cried Miss Lemon. “We should call it… Hastings Day! In honour of the man who made it all possible.”

“Better make that Hastings Monday,” said Chief Inspector Japp. “So today can be the first one. That’d be just as well, too. Monday’s the day I could most use a holiday on.”

This was a suggestion that, in its essentials, appealed very much to Poirot. “ _Bon_. However, Hastings Monday Evening may be a more accurate title, as this a holiday which will be celebrated in the nighttime and not the daytime. What do you think, friend Hastings?”

Hastings was quite scandalized by this new negotiation, and also by how readily his three dinner companions would sacrifice a portion of their week for his benefit. “I think this is more than a trifle embarrassing,” he answered shyly, yet with a helplessly growing smile, the sight of which pleased Poirot a great deal.

Miss Lemon wore also the cheerful smile which Poirot liked to see her wear. “Hastings Monday Evening is a little long of a name. And, who knows, we might branch out to a morning breakfast one of these days. We ought to leave our options open!”

This struck Poirot as an insufficient argument. “Forgive me, Miss Lemon, but what if we also ever want to branch out into Sunday, _par exemple_? Or Tuesday? What will we call our holiday then?”

“Then, it’ll still be Hastings Monday,” said Chief Inspector Japp, with an authoritative optimism. It was clear to Poirot that Chief Inspector Japp would not be readily swayed on this matter. “The name is catchy, and that’s all it needs to be. To be honest, I rather like the thought of having a nice, relaxing holiday to look forward to every time I go in for work at the start of each week.”

Captain Hastings was weakening, and his old affability slowly came to return to him, yet Poirot’s dedicated biographer and friend had one last objection which stood in the way. “But you and Poirot will have to set the table every time! I hate to do that to you two.”

Poirot scoffed at this concern. “This is not a problem. Poirot is the Belgian chef most excellent.”

“Have you ever seen Monsieur Poirot cook?” retorted Miss Lemon with dryness. “He goes at it with a passion. Besides, it’s not much of a chore for me to set the plates in their proper order. You must know by now how much I already work at keeping the flat in perfect shape.”

Captain Hastings was crumbling beneath this combined onslaught. “But… But…” The weight of the compassion of all his friends was too much for the English self-denial of Captain Hastings. Like a house of cards, he caved before them. “You’re all much too kind. Thank you. This is very generous.”

Poirot tipped his head. “It is our pleasure. Happy Hastings Monday, friend Hastings.”

“Happy Hastings Monday,” added Miss Lemon.

“Happy Hastings Monday!” said Chief Inspector Japp, vigorously.

“Happy Hastings Monday,” said Captain Hastings, by way of agreement, with a chuckle that his English propriety wasn’t strong enough to restrain, and which was contagious to those who were closest to him.

End.


End file.
